Emily
Emily Hartwell — no longer frivolous Emily, no longer the sparkling distraction she had once played at — sat in the corner of Lady Wetherby's drawing room, her hands clenched in her lap as laughter tinkled around her. Cards slapped the table, champagne glasses clinked, and voices rose in cheerful chatter. Yet beneath it all, she caught it: the whispers.
"So sudden, her death…"
"He returned to the council too quickly, don't you think?"
"And that actress — what's her name? Clara? He's been seen near her house…"
Emily's heart thudded painfully. Every word was like a blade, each sharper than the last. She wanted to leap up, to shout them down, but the rules of society chained her tongue. So she smiled, brittle and cold, until the gathering broke and she could escape into the evening air.
Her grief had been sharp enough — the empty place at her side where Evelyn should have been, the memory of her sister's steady hand holding hers. Evelyn had been the anchor of their family, the one who soothed Emily's storms. Now Emily was adrift, her frivolity useless, her laughter hollow.
And to hear Evelyn's memory sullied — by whispers of Adrian's supposed infidelity — was intolerable.
When she reached Adrian's house, she did not wait for the butler to announce her. She swept past him, skirts hissing against the polished floor, and burst into Adrian's study.
He rose at once, startled by the storm in her face. "Emily —"
"Don't you Emily me," she snapped, her voice raw with fury. "Do you know what they're saying in the drawing rooms? Do you?"
Adrian stiffened. "I've heard… rumors."
"Rumors?" Emily's laugh was sharp, bitter. "They're not just rumors anymore. They're poisoning Evelyn's memory, Adrian! They're saying you were unfaithful, that you loved another while she carried your child. That she —" Her voice broke. She pressed her hand to her mouth, unable to say the rest.
Adrian's face hardened, anguish flickering across his features. "I swear to you, Emily, I never betrayed her. Not in heart, not in deed."
Emily's eyes burned. "Then how is it that this
Clara
is always on their lips? How is it that she appears wherever whispers gather? If you didn't betray Evelyn, someone wants the world to think you did."
Adrian stepped toward her, his voice low. "Crowne. It must be him. And Clara his weapon."
Emily turned away, pacing, her skirts swishing in agitation. "Crowne I understand. He envies you, hates you. But Clara —" She spat the name like venom. "I'll see her ruined for this. She's taken my sister from me twice: first in life, now in memory."
Adrian reached for her arm, his grip firm but not unkind. "No, Emily. You cannot fight this battle in the salons and drawing rooms. That is what Crowne wants — for us to lash out blindly, to look desperate, to soil our own cause."
Tears stung her eyes, but her fury burned hotter. "You may endure it, Adrian, but I will not. Evelyn was my sister. My blood. I will not sit silent while her name is dragged through mud."
Adrian's gaze softened, though his jaw remained taut. "Then help me. Not with vengeance, but with truth. Hold your ground, speak for her character, for mine. If we act with dignity, the lies will collapse under their own weight."
Emily stared at him, torn between rage and reason. At last she whispered, "If they do not collapse?"
"Then," Adrian said grimly, "we will bring them down ourselves."
Emily left that night with her grief sharpened into purpose. She could not undo Evelyn's death. But she would not let Clara — or Crowne — make a mockery of it. Her role in society, her mask of frivolity, would serve her now. She would listen, gather, watch. And when the time came, she would strike — not for herself, but for Evelyn.
Clara
The theatre was empty save for the echo of Clara's voice as she rehearsed a monologue upon the darkened stage. The words were not lines from a play but whispers she had plucked from the salons and parlors of New Albion —Evelyn's name twisted, Adrian's honor questioned.
Crowne sat in the front row, gloved hands resting lightly upon his cane, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
"You have a gift," he said when she finished. "Not merely for performance, but for persuasion. Every phrase drips with just enough sorrow to make them believe you. They don't see the actress — they see the grieving confidante of a great man."
Clara dipped into a mocking curtsy. "And you, my lord, are an excellent director. But tell me — how long before whispers become a storm?"
Crowne leaned back. "Already the council mutters. Already the newspapers sharpen their pens, waiting for confirmation. Rumor is a seed, Clara. Give it water, and it will sprout into scandal. In time, Vale will not be able to walk down a street without feeling the eyes upon him."
Clara's lips curved into a sly smile. "And you will step into his place."
"Precisely." His voice was smooth, cold. "But patience. A man destroyed too swiftly becomes a martyr. We must make him stumble, again and again, until the people see not a victim but a hypocrite."
Clara approached the edge of the stage, her skirts trailing like shadows. "And if he fights back?"
Crowne's smile was thin. "Then he exposes himself further. Anger is the enemy of dignity. The more he protests, the more desperate he will seem. And desperation is the scent that draws blood."
She tilted her head, considering him. "You take great pleasure in this, don't you?"
Crowne's eyes flickered. For a moment, something harder, darker, flashed there. "Pleasure? No. Necessity. Men like Vale are dangerous— visionaries who believe their will alone can shape a nation. They must be put in their place, lest they rise above the order that protects us all."
"And yet," Clara murmured, descending the steps to stand before him, "you too are a visionary. Only your vision leaves no room for rivals."
He rose, standing close enough that she could feel the chill of his breath. "I have no equals. Adrian Vale will learn that truth soon enough."
Clara laughed softly, laying a hand upon his chest. "Very well, my lord. I shall play my part to perfection. I will weep, and sigh, and tell them how his words once warmed me, how his hand lingered too long. By the time the scandal bursts into daylight, they will swear they witnessed it."
Crowne covered her hand with his own, his expression unreadable. "Good. Then let us weave the final threads. Tonight, we plant the story with the Gazette. Tomorrow, we let the city devour it."
The pair walked off into the shadows, leaving behind only the ghost of Clara's laughter— low, silken, and full of promise.